Shirley Murphy - Cat to the Dogs

Everyone on the street was talking at once, giving each other advice, recounting what life-threatening objects had fallen narrowly missing them. Wilma, glancing down at the cats, led her little entourage quickly across Ocean's grassy median, away from the crowd and debris. Lucinda remained quiet. Not until they were half a block from her house did she make any sound.

Stopping suddenly and staring ahead, she let out a startled gasp.

Lucinda's Victorian home stood solidly enough. But her entire parlor seemed to have been removed, by the quake, onto the front lawn. Delicate settees and little tables stood about in little groups. A circle of needlepoint dining chairs accommodated eight Greenlaw women chatting and taking their ease.

As they approached, Dirken and his cousin Joey emerged from the house carrying the dining table. Behind them, three of the bigger Greenlaw children appeared, hauling out cans of food, stacks of plates, and a potful of silverware-whether to prepare an emergency meal or to cart away Lucinda's possessions wasn't clear. Beside the drive, a mattress lay tilted against a tree, and at the edge of the lawn, a pile of bedding and pillows beckoned to the tired and weary.

Lucinda approached stiffly-and suddenly she flew at Dirken. He dropped the table as her fists pounded his chest.

"What have you done, Dirken? What is this about! What are you doing!"

"There was an earthquake, Aunt Lucinda." Dirken put his arm around her. "A terrible jolt. I'm so glad you're all right."

Lucinda slapped his arm away. "All of this, because of an earthquake?"

"Yes, Aunt Lucinda. One has to…"

"Take it back. All of it. Every piece. Do it now, Dirken. Take it back inside."

"But you can't stay in the house when there's been…"

Her faded eyes flashed. "Wipe the grass off the feet of the furniture before you put it on the carpet. And place it properly, just as I had it. What on earth did you think you were doing?"

Dirken didn't move. "You don't understand about these things, Aunt Lucinda. It's dangerous to stay inside during a quake. You have to move outdoors. The house could fall on you."

She fixed Dirken with a gaze that would petrify jungle beasts. "You are outside, Dirken. I am outside. My furniture does not need to be outside. If my possessions are crushed by a quake, that is none of your concern. Take it back. You are not camping on my lawn like a pack of ragtag…" She paused for a long, awkward moment. "Like ragtag hoboes," she shouted, her eyes blazing at him.

Dulcie twitched her whiskers, her ears up, her eyes bright. She liked Lucinda better when she took command, when she wasn't playing doormat. "But what is that?" she whispered to Joe, looking past the furniture to where Clyde's two pups lay, behind the Victorian settee, chewing on something white and limp.

The cats trotted over.

The pups smiled, delighted to see them, then growled to warn them off their treasure. It was strange, Dulcie thought, that the only cat they feared was that tiny waif up on Hellhag Hill.

Dodging Selig, she swiped out with a swift paw and hauled the rectangular piece of canvas away from them. It was as heavy as a buck rabbit, and wet from their chewing: a big canvas bag with a drawstring top.

It smelled most interesting. The cats sniffed at it, and smiled.

They could see, behind the pups, broken concrete scattered from a wide crack in the foundation, where the bag must have lain, just beneath the fireplace.

Driving the pups out of the way with hisses and slaps, Joe pawed the canvas bag open. Dulcie stuck her head in.

The bag was empty, but the cloth smelled of old, musty money.

So the Greenlaw men had been searching for money. How very prosaic. No one buried money anymore.

Except, perhaps, someone who didn't like the IRS, she thought, smiling. The cats were still sniffing the bag when Joe nudged Dulcie, and she looked up at a crowd of trousered legs surrounding them, and a ring of broad Irish faces, all intent on the empty bag.

All seven Greenlaw men swung down, snatching at the bag. Dirken was quickest, jerking it away.

He pulled open the bag and peered in, then looked around the lawn as if expecting to see scattered greenbacks blowing across the grass like summer leaves.

The men were all staring at the empty bag and shuffling their feet when Lucinda pushed between them, put out her hand, and took it from Dirken.

"Were you expecting something more, Dirken? Were you expecting the bag to contain something you've been looking for?"

She didn't wait for his answer. She turned and walked away, folding the bag neatly into a square, as if she were folding freshly washed linen. A huge silence lay behind her.

Only slowly did the Greenlaw men disperse, moving away, bewildered. Even the pups were subdued, trotting from one solemn figure to another, then away again when no one paid attention to them.

But when Sam Fulman appeared, coming out of the house, Selig raced to him leaping and whining-then backed away snarling, as if uncertain whether to kiss Fulman or bite him.

Hestig dropped to his belly and ran-straight to Clyde, who came hurrying around the corner toward the crowd, evidently summoned by the loud barking. Grabbing Hestig's collar, Clyde knelt to put a leash on.

Selig was still leaping at Fulman, alternately growling and licking. Fulman, tired of the furor, gave the puppy a hard whack across the face. When Selig yelped, Fulman hit him again on his soft ear. Selig screamed and spun around, plowing into Clyde, pressing against Clyde. The cats, close to Fulman, got a good whiff of him, over the scent of dog.

They would not forget that sour smell. Glancing at each other, they ran for Joe's place. They'd had enough-too many people, too many dogs, too much to sort out. They needed space, time to think. They needed a square meal.

Pushing in through the dog door, they pawed open the refrigerator.

Wilma's larder boasted far superior offerings. She kept a shelf for Dulcie stocked with Brie, imported kippers, rare steak, and custards. In Joe's house, they simply had to make do; there was no time to call Jolly's Deli, with Clyde sure to barge in. The half-empty box offered cold spaghetti and a slice of overripe ham. This, with a bag of kitty kibble hastily clawed from the cupboard, completed their meal. Crouched on the kitchen floor lapping up spaghetti, they wondered how long Lucinda had had the money, how she came to find the bag, and where the money was now.

"Maybe in a safe-deposit box?" Dulcie said, pawing at an escaped strand of spaghetti. "One thing's sure, that poor old house might survive, now, with Dirken done tearing it up."

Finishing their dull repast, they left the spaghetti-stained dish in the middle of the kitchen floor, like the receptacle of some bloody sacrifice, and curled up on Clyde's bed for a nap. They slept long and deeply. But as dusk fell, dimming the bedroom, they trotted out to sit on the back fence.

They wanted to be sure Fulman was there for dinner, to be sure the coast was clear.

They had no idea what they would find in Fulman's trailer, what additional piece of the puzzle. Hopefully, something that would tie Fulman to Raul Torres and maybe to Chambers's stabbing. As for last night's double "accident," they already had a witness. Though she could never testify. What they wanted now was hard evidence.

They waited until the clan had gathered at the table for a heavy meal of roast beef and potatoes, but Fulman didn't show. Nor was Lucinda present. Though often, when there was a heavy meal, Lucinda would appear toward the end, for a salad and dessert.

"Surprised Cara Ray isn't there," Joe said. "She's there often enough."

Dulcie narrowed her eyes. "Maybe she and Fulman are at the motel having a little party."